


A Tank of Gas and A Bag of Loot

by a_xmasmurder



Series: Marvel Bites [20]
Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint is always a Badass, F/M, Origin Story, Steve gets peed on, Trope: Save the Damsel in Distress, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-06
Updated: 2017-01-06
Packaged: 2018-09-15 04:57:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9219800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_xmasmurder/pseuds/a_xmasmurder
Summary: The origin (in my mind) of Clint and Laura Barton.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed and mostly scrubbed with dollar-store detergent. May taste like shitty lemons. Enter at your own risk.

Clint downshifts as he hits town. The Jeep grumbles in response, but slows obediently. The orange glow of the streetlights blur through the windshield and through his battered retinas. He’s been driving for hours, days even. Probably not days, but Christ it feels like it. He’s frickin’ exhausted. And if the bastards were following him before, they ain’t now. They can’t be. They would have caught up to him at the couple gas stations he’s stopped at for grub and gas. Must’ve given up? He looks at the rear view mirror and sees the black duffle bag illuminated by the outside lights. The very sight of it thrills his young heart. 

It also terrifies the living shit out of him.

Eyes on the road. He makes sure he’s doing a couple miles over the posted speed, just barely. Enough to make the one cop he passes near the brick post office think he’s a local, not a seventeen year old runaway in a stolen car and no driver’s license with a duffle full of mixed denomination bills. His eyes tick down to the six empty cans of shitty beer in the passenger footwell. Not fair, dude. Not even close to fair. He didn’t even drink those. If he gets pulled over now, he’s in the slammer for a few years. He takes a few deep breaths and checks the mirror again, knowing the cop didn’t even crawl forward. Yep. Empty behind him. He looks forward again. Empty in front of him. Good.

The town itself isn’t that big, but it’s big enough that the other side is awash in white light from the truck stop. Clint pulls into a pump and turns the lumbering beast off. What the hell is he going to do with the duffle bag? It’s sitting in the back seat, open to the air. With a grunt, he pulls it up to the front and pushes it on top of the cans. With a quick look around to make sure no one’s watching, he unzips it and reaches in, closing his fist around a few loose bills near the bottom. His fingers hook into someone’s pearl necklace, and he grins. What a haul. He’ll hit a pawn shop around noon tomorrow and offload the jewelry. No point in tracking down owners, really. It’ll just open him up to questions and he doesn’t need those. Pawn shop it is. He leaves the necklace and counts the bills, then zips the duffle closed again when he’s sure he’s got enough for a hot meal and gas. Maybe some bottled water or pop. Some chips? Sure, why not? He’s got a couple bucks to spare. He gets out, then leans back in when the chiming lets him know he’s left the keys in the ignition. God, does everyone have that problem? He pockets the keys and pops the gas cap, humming as he pumps gas.  _ Nothin’ to see here, sir. Just fillin’ my tank so I can escape my past for good this time _ . He finishes up and drives over to park.

The cashier is bored and barely awake enough to ring up the armload of munchies and drinks Clint tosses onto the counter. Clint walks out, throws the bags into the back, then walks around to the entrance to the all-night diner. The moment he walks in, he groans in regret. He checks the Rolex watch he’d pulled out of the duffle about eighty miles back. Great. Bar time was fifteen minutes ago. Thrilling. There’s one waitress, brown hair pulled up into a messy bun, looking after a table full of loud and rowdy drunks. The cook peeks his bald head through the order window a couple times under a minute, but no one really acknowledges he’d walked through the door. He’s got all the time in the world and he’s also running out of time fast, so he taps on the counter when he sits down. The tired-looking young waitress tries on a smile for him as she walks over. “What can I get ya, honey?”

Clint smiles right back at her. “A cup of coffee will hit the spot just fine.” He points at the chalkboard behind her. “And the red eye special, if the grease-slinger back there will make it. Eggs sunny side up, wheat and lots of butter. Double up on the bacon, too.” He turns up the wattage on his smile. “Hungry guy, sorry.”

She walks away with a more genuine smile on her face, and Clint settles back to deliberately not listen to the raucous crowd taking up the middle of the diner. The cup of coffee appears, creamer and sugar on the saucer, and Clint smiles for the waitress again.

“Food’ll be right up, darling.”

“Thank you very much, miss.” Clint tries to act like an adult. He’s one, now, right? After all that shit went down, he’s gotta be. “Miles have taken their toll, let me tell ya.” He leans back and savors the ladder of cracks that makes its way up his spine.

She looks all too interested in him now. Her fingers tuck loose strands of hair behind her ear. “Where are you headed?”

Clint’s grin wavers just a bit. “Anywhere but where I was before.”

“That bad, huh?”

“You could say that.” A shout follows the sound of broken ceramic, and the waitress - Clint can’t see a name badge - sighs quietly and rolls her eyes. Clint feels for her, he really does. Reminds him of being on stage in front of drunk and unruly circus-goers. “Sounds like you could get out, too.”

She sighs again. “Not everyone can run off.” She turns to the rowdy drunks. “Easy on the cups, boys! Clyde, don’t make a mess again!” A chorus of invective and unsavory words wash over Clint and the waitress. Behind her, the cook tosses Clint’s plate of food onto the metal ledge and whistles. “Hold on, hun.” She quickly returns with the food and a refill on the coffee. As she pours, Clint sees the ring on her left hand and the fading bruises around her right wrist, clearly covered up with a compact. A quick glance makes her blush and turn away to the group’s table, where she knows Clyde. Clint shoves food into his mouth, refusing to admit to himself that the young lady’s a pretty one, and in a pretty worrying situation. He hates abuse. Absolutely hates it. But he can’t say anything, he’ll blow this whole thing. He gulps down his coffee and refuses to see the lines on her face, the circles under her bright eyes. Those fucking bruises. He can’t get involved. Not now. Not when he’s nearly free. He looks up at a squeal that didn’t sound all that happy. The waitress is now sitting in a big guy’s lap, his work-roughened hand wrapped around her waist. Left hand. Wide ring. Clint won’t take any bets that it’s a matching set. Goddamn it, why’d he stop here? He swallows around the heavy lump that his toast turned into.

“Clyde, stop! I’m workin’!”

“Oh, so waiting on the pretty boy over there more important than me?”

Clint focuses on his runny eggs, letting his right eye twitch under the stress of holding back the sudden urge to twist ‘Clyde’ into a pretzel. Pretty boy. He’ll show that lunk what a pretty boy like him can do...

“He’s a customer, honey. Of course I have to wait on him!”

“He’s eating, baby doll! He ain’t goin’ nowhere, c’mere.”

A man leans out of the swinging door. “Hey! Laura, git back to work! Boys, you leave off the poor girl, y’hear? Gonna kick y’all out if you keep it up!” Clint looks up. Must be the boss of this joint. Maybe he could bring it up to him.

“Aww!” Clint clenches his jaw as Clyde whined. “We just got married coupla days ago, Frank! Can’t I show my girl a good time?”

The waitress - Laura - comes back over to Clint with a pot of coffee still in her hand. “Can I get you anything else?” Her smile is gone, covered up by an embarrassed smirk. “Maybe a slice o’ pie? Best apple pie around!”

He can’t do this. He can’t get involved.

He smiles at her. “Naw. I’m good.” He twirls his finger. “Gotta get back on the road. No rest for the weary, right?”

What’s left of the light in her eyes dims, and she nods. “Right.” She perks up, but it’s faked. “I’ll just get you your bill, okay? Hang tight.” God DAMN it.

As her back is turned, he scribbles a simple sentence on a napkin and folds it around a twenty. He leaves a ten for the bill and walks over to the door joining the station and the diner. “Keep the change, Laura!”

He walks through the tiny aisles again, and picks up a tire iron. He’d noticed he didn’t have one of those, and what if he gets a flat? He tosses it on the counter, scaring the bejeezus out of the sleeping cashier. “Hey. Got a question for ya.”

“Uh. sure.”

“How long does the sheriff take to respond to a disturbance out here?”

The cashier blinks at him. “You talkin’ about those guys in there?” Clint shrugs. “Olson never comes out this way after the Walker boys been drinkin’. Waste of his time, he says. As long as they don’t hit a tree on the way home, he don’t mind. Walker boys have that big farm down the road a few miles, y’know?”

“I know now.” Clint swipes up the tire iron. “Thanks, man.” As he leaves, the guy calls after him.

“You’re not from around ‘ere, are ya?”

Clint grins and walks out.

He stops at the side of the Jeep and braces his hands on the metal and plastic. His head drops, and he groans, long and hard. God damn it. God  _ damn _ it. Shit. He grips the tire iron with one hand while reaching into the back and grabbing his hunting knife out of his bow case. God damn his bleedin’ heart. He pushes away from the Jeep and circles back around to the diner entrance again.

  
  
  


Laura sighs and leans against the counter, the napkin-wrapped twenty lying in her palm like a broken bird. What’s that man thinkin’ a twenty will get her? A bus ticket to nowhere? She has no money in the bank, not with her new husband drinking away her earnings every night. All she has is her work uniform and her Sunday dress hangin’ in her locker in the back. She unfolds the napkin, refusing to let tears cloud her vision. He was just a guy passing through. He wasn’t the way out of this hell. She doesn’t even know his name. 

There’s something written on the white paper, hidden by the money. Scowling, she fully expects a Bible passage or a stupid ‘hope for the best, sweetheart’ saying. But the words scribbled out in blue ballpoint pen confuse her.

_ When you hear the door open, duck. _

Duck? What the hell? Clyde shouts something disgusting at her, and she thinks for a moment about ignoring him. But the way he’d reacted the last time she’d done that makes her cringe. She looks up.

None of the boys are paying attention to the big windows lining the walls of this place, so they don’t see the traveler circling around his vehicle. They don’t see him walking back to the door. No, he’s not walking. He’s _stalking._ There’s no mistaking the set of those shoulders, head held high like those National Guard boys that come over from the base every so often. He’s got something resting against his shoulder, too. Laura can’t believe her eyes. Maybe it’s just her imagination getting the better of her. That note, and now this? Impossible. She’s seein’ things again. Maybe he’s just gonna bust the window on Clyde’s truck. Or maybe… Oh, God have mercy, he’s turning towards the door, not the parking lot. Not Clyde’s truck. He’s gonna take on everyone? Her hands shake as she thinks. Scenarios pulse through her brain in a crash, none of them turning out good for the traveler unless she does something about it. She looks around for something...oh. Oh! She takes up the coffee carafe and walks over to Clyde and his croneys. She has to time this right, or this guy, whatever he’s planning, isn’t going to stand a chance. She doesn’t even know him. But the moment the door opens, she doesn’t duck.

Clyde lets out a strangled yelp when she trips over the carpet and dumps the whole pot of coffee in his lap. She drops to her knees and grabs napkins out of her apron, faking every apology that comes out of her mouth. “Oh, no! I’m sorry, honey, I tripped! I’m so sorry!” She shoves napkins in his lap and pats at the hot coffee as he cusses her out. His friends are all focused on them, laughing and cursing as loud as Clyde is. She looks up and sees the traveler mere feet away, staring hard at her as he raises the tire iron above his head.  _ Now _ she ducks.

She can hear pained shouts and heavy cracks as she covers her head. A plate of food falls on her shoulders, but she stays curled up under the table as the diner falls into chaos. She covers her ears the moment a shadow on the floor pulls a gun, and the crack still deafens her. For a horrible second, she’s sure the newcomer is dead. The second turns into an eternity when he hits the floor next to her. She wants to scream as she turns her head, unsure of what she’ll find. Clyde will know that she’d dumped the coffee as a distraction. She knows that she’ll probably end up in the town paper the next morning, the next victim of a drunken binge gone wrong. No one will know of her struggle, no one will know that all she wanted to do was get out of this dump of a town. No one will know who this man next to her was. He will never get to where he was going, and it’s her fault. She locks eyes with him. 

Wait.

He’s awake.

And the son of a bitch winks at her and waggles a knife against his chest. Then Clyde, her dumb-as-a-box-of-rocks joke of a husband picks the man up by the back of his jean jacket and lifts him off the ground. Her eyes follow them as Clyde turns him around. The man rams the knife deep into Clyde’s shoulder. Clyde screams and drops him to the floor again. This time, the man keeps his feet and drives a hard-looking right hook into Clyde’s face. Clyde hits the floor.

After a minute, the echoes of the fight fade and the diner is silent for the first time since bar time, save for the cook screaming in Spanish in the kitchen. She slowly gets to her feet, her work shoes sliding against the blisters on her toes. She gasps, hands flying to her mouth. Everyone’s on the floor, either barely moving or dead to the world. Or dead, she thinks wildly as she turns to the only one still standing. The traveler bends over and picks up his tire iron, shiny metal now smeared with blood. He props it up on his shoulder and flips the ugly hunting knife idly in the air. He’s got a grin on his face and looks about as wild and dangerous as they come. She should be terrified, like the cook is.

“Who are you?”

The man drops the grin. “No one, darling.” He picks up a coffee-soaked napkin and wipes it over the tire iron, then drops it back to the ground. “See ya. Pick better spouses, next time.” He walks back to the door. “And get a bus out of this dump. It doesn’t suit you.”

Laura watches him walk out the door and back to his Jeep. She’s in shock. He can’t just leave like that. Not after… She looks around at all the bodies on the floor, then turns to her boss, who is standing with the swinging door wide open, staring after the guy too. He glances at her. “Go get him, Laura.”

  
  
  


Clint swings into the driver’s seat, still full of adrenaline from the mess he made in that diner, and tosses the duffle back into the back seat. Shit, he should leave the owner a fistful of cash just for that. Damn it. He shouldn’t have gotten involved. He digs the keys out of his pocket and jams them into the ignition. The Jeep starts up with a groan. Time to blow this - 

“Hey!”

Aww, shit.

The waitress grabs the lip of the door, Clint’s tire iron fisted in her hand. “You forgot this.”

Clint rubs his forehead. “Yeah. I did it deliberately.”

“Well.” The girl chews on her lip. “I want you to have it back. Just in case you feel like getting into any more diner brawls.”

That makes him chortle. “Yeah, sure. Why not? I always get into those. Toss it into the seat.” He flips his hand to the passenger seat. “Don’t mind the beer cans. They aren’t mine.”

She circles around the rumbling Jeep and jumps in.

“What the hell are you doing?” Clint doesn’t like how squeaky his voice still gets when he’s surprised. “You can’t just jump into someone’s car like that!”

The girl just wiggles her butt into the seat, her skirt riding up to reveal her thighs a little. “Just did. Like I said, you forgot this.”

“I forgot the tire iron!”

“Wasn’t talking about the iron, buddy.” She smirks at him. “Where are we going?”

“ _ I _ am going to the last place I stop.  _ You  _ are staying right the hell here.” Clint growls and shoves at the gearshift, reversing out of the parking spot jerkily. “Where do you live?”

“The last place I stop.”

Clint rolls his eyes. “I told you to get a bus outta here, girl.”

“Laura.”

“I’m sorry?” Clint slams the shifter into Drive. “Where do you live?”

“My name is Laura, and I don’t live here no more.” Laura crosses her arms over her chest. “Where are you going?”

Clint doesn’t hit the gas just yet. He just sits, letting the Jeep idle. He stares out into the darkness of the road ahead. “Nowhere in particular, actually.” He swallows. “Told you to find a better man.”

“You told me to find a better  _ spouse _ . You don’t look like the marryin’ type, now do you?” Laura smiles at him. He stares at her reflection in the glass. “Besides. Clyde back there was the best option in this town.”

Clint lets out a low whistle. “Whoops.”

“Yep.” Laura keeps the smile and kicks at the cans. “So, no destination. You got a tire iron and a scary looking knife -”

“Got a bow, too.”

She laughs, and it might be the most beautiful sound Clint has ever heard. “And a bow.” She points to the duffle bag. “What’s in there?”

“Don’t wanna know.” Clint finally turns to her. “My name’s Clinton, by the way. You can call me Clint.”

“Clint.” Laura holds out her hand. “Nice to meet you, Clint.”

“Likewise.” Clint finally presses the accelerator, letting the Jeep crawl towards the road. “Y’know, I’m thinkin’ of a movie right now.”

“Are ya?”

“Yeah.” He pulls a pair of sunglasses from the visor and tosses them at Laura. “ ‘It’s 106 miles to Chicago, we got a full tank of gas, half a pack of cigarettes, it’s dark...and we are wearing sunglasses.” He grins at her.

Laura slips the sunglasses on her face. “Hit it.”

  
  
  
  


“And that’s how we met.” Clint stirs his mug of coffee and shrugs. “It’s almost like we’re meant to be together, I guess.” He leans his hip against the table. 

Across from him, Tony stares. “No way.”

“Way.” Clint smirks as he sips, then grimaces. “Sugar. Someone put sugar into my heavenly nectar of the gods.”

Laura passes him, swatting him on the rear. “I did. You need the glucose, especially after you said you weren’t going out with the team again and then you end up being sat on by Bruce.”

“In his defense, the big guy got tired, and I didn’t move fast enough.” Clint sets the cup down and winds his arms around his wife. “Normal coffee, please?”

“Glucose. Blood sugar.”

“Need blood in order to have blood sugar.”

Tony shakes his head. “You didn’t beat the crap out of ten guys at seventeen, Barton. There’s no way.”

“But I did!” Clint squeezes Laura. “For this little lady here, I would do anything.”

“Including repapering the upstairs hallway, right?”

“For you? Whatever color you want.” He pecks her on the cheek, and Tony makes gagging noises. “Quit it, you infant! As if you never mooned over Pepper.”

“Only if no one else is around.”

“Lies.”

Tony chucks a napkin at them. “And are you going to own up to your own lies?”

“Ha, ha. Never.” Laura bats Clint’s hands away and moves to the refrigerator. “So, it’s either he saved me from a lifetime of abuse and boredom, or we met in the circus.”

“Hey, don’t forget the one about the bear and Alaska!” Clint brings the coffee pot over to the table and sits down. “Or the roadside diner in Oklahoma.”

“What about the Wisconsin State Fair?” Laura sets a smoothie in front of Tony, who accepts it with a surprised smile. “You got me that giant stuffed giraffe and I pledged myself to you?”

“Dime machine rings and all.” Clint leans back in his chair.

“You.” Tony looks from Laura to Clint. “You are both lying, and that’s not fair.”

Steve sticks his head around the corner. “Anyone seen Natasha?”

“Not lately, why?” Clint lifts the pot. “Coffee? Laura’s pouring.”

“Nathaniel needs a change, and I’m not about to do it.” Steve makes a face. “I’ve had your coffee, Clint.”

“No, this is Laura’s. She makes the best truckstop coffee this side of the Mississippi.”

Steve stares. “Natasha?”

“She’s probably sleeping.” Laura pats Steve on the face. “Be a big boy and change him yourself.”

“You are still lying.” Tony is adamant. He points the playset spoon Lila set in front of him hours ago at Clint. “You are lying. You were seventeen, Clint. Seventeen year olds don’t take over diners with badassery.”

“Seventeen year olds don’t have their own multi-billion dollar companies, either.” Clint grins.

Tony chews on that. “I concede that point. But still. That is a story you made up to hide how you two really met.”

“Tony.” Clint and Tony look up at Laura. “Where do you think my husband found the money to buy land, build a house and a barn, buy farm animals and equipment -”

“SHIELD pays well.” Tony shrugs.

Clint stares at him.

Tony leans back. “Don’t they?”

Clint’s eyebrow climbs up his forehead.

“They don’t?” Tony leans further back and shouts down the hall. “Steve! What do they pay you at SHIELD?”

“Pennies, compared to the back pay and pension I’m getting from the Army,” is the reply, along with a muffled curse. “Mrs. Barton, can we please find Nat? I just got peed on!” A high-pitched squeal echoes down the hall, and Clint cackles. 


End file.
